Everland
by kemu17
Summary: Post Neverland. Morse is in prison, when he receives a letter bearing news from the outside. What is it, and what does it mean for him, his conviction, and his career? Rated K Just in case, some swearing and such (made some alterations to chapter 4 for those that have already read that far)
1. Prison

For the first few days, Morse forced round the prison, a whirlwind of vengeful fury. He felt sure that it wouldn't take too long for someone to sort out the mess, and work out that he hadn't even been in the vicinity of the murder for which he had been arrested. However, hours turned into days, days to weeks with no sign of any let up, and no news from the outside. Morse refused to let himself think the worst – the only thing that got him up in the morning was the vague shred of hope, that somehow someone would work a miracle.

At the start, Morse's head was a web of memories, each a still shot frame, flicking round in a never ending film reel. Thursday and Morse confirming 'until the end'; Thursday by the door, gun extended; a shot, Thursday falling to the floor; Deare's arrogant, sneering face; Thursday, pale and lank, being loaded onto an ambulance; being bundled into the back of a police car. After that, all Morse remembered was a blur of unknown county faces, paper forms, prison admittance procedures then the inside of his cell. The only words that had left his mouth since his arrest were questions about Thursday, no one had told him anything. He had learned to compartmentalise his thoughts – all thoughts relating to Thursday had been firmly packed into the locked drawer. He couldn't think the worst, he had to believe that Thursday had pulled through, and would start working to spring him.

The prison wardens had wasted no time in letting all the inmates know who Morse was, and where he came from. There had been a heart stopping moment when a burly gang had cornered him in the laundry, but a well-timed fire alarm had saved Morse from a good beating.

The door to Morse's cell banged open, bringing in the grim faced warden and a tall, well-built prisoner that Morse vaguely recognised from the canteen. The man put down his meagre belongings on the top bunk, and threw out a hand to Morse.

"Brown, Mike Brown."

"Morse," Morse said, hesitantly taking the man's hand. He had worked out fairly soon that it was better not to bite the hand punched. He also had the growing feeling that he had met Brown before, but he couldn't quite put his finger on where.

"I'm sorry Mr Brown, but I feel like I know you from somewhere?"

Brown snorted. "First person in here to call me Mr. First person to acknowledge me as a person, we're just case numbers to the rest of them. They said you murdered a police officer. It wasn't you though, was it?"

"Wha… how do you know?" Morse looked up at him, astonished.

"I can just tell these things," Brown gave a wry smile. "It wasn't me that done mine either. Some county cop shopped me as a wife beater, and the sleazy bastard lawyer tore me to shreds in court."

"County…" Morse was sifting through his memories, the one he needed still elusively out of his grasp.

"Yeah Witney, back in February. The Brown murder, Stape wood. You were on the front desk."

It all clicked into place in Morse's head. DI Church had deliberately kept him out of the investigation, but he had picked up on the main details. A woman had been found dead in a local wood, killed by a blow to the head. The murder weapon, a socket wrench, had been found in the husband's toolbox. Open and shut case. Morse had tried to point out that a wrench was more likely to be used by a mechanic than a carpenter, but Church had thrown him from his office and slammed the door in his face.

"I… I'm really sorry Mr Brown. I tried to help you, but I wasn't allowed."

"Not your fault mate. Anyways, I've got my fingers in a few pies if you get my drift. Done a few odd jobs here and there, earned a few favours. They leave me alone now; they know I'm the one who fixes things. Stick by me and you'll do fine."

"Thank you for your concern Mr Brown, but I don't need protecting."

Brown barked out a laugh at this, a sarcastic grimace twisting his face. "So what was that cosy little gathering in the laundry the other day then? Knitting club?"

"How did you know about that?"

Browns wide smile was genuine this time.

"Who do you think set the fire alarm off?"


	2. News

The days continued to roll by, a never ending routine of meals, laundry, exercise hour and garden work. So far, Morse had had no contact or visitors to break the monotony, but Brown had managed to commandeer Morse and himself more time in the social room. Morse had soon learned that Brown had earned the attention of a sympathetic warden he knew from school, and he reliably informed Morse that an unknown high ranking official had put a block on Morse – anyone caught trying to communicate with him would be arrested for conspiracy.

It was therefore something of a surprise when Morse found a piece of paper slipped under his pillow one day. He opened it, heart racing. The note was short and to the point; there was no signature but Morse didn't need one to recognise Jakes' spidery slant.

 _Trust me_

And for once, Morse did trust Jakes. He knew Jakes cared for Thursday just as much as he did, and since returning from Witney, he and Jakes had slotted into an unlikely camaraderie. He knew Jakes would pursue the case to the ends of the earth if necessary, and he knew that he had contacts, favours he could call in. He imagined Frazil finding her way to Jakes, digging- no wait; he couldn't allow himself to hope too big. Just Jakes and Bright. Maybe Strange, if he could be convinced to testify about Deare's orders. Morse had tried not to think about Strange too much – he found himself balling his fists up, with the desire to punch something. If only the idiot had just sent someone, even one car, at the very least, he would be sitting at Thursday's bedside with his family, a free man. Morse froze, as a haunting memory of Thursday's voice slipped through – "The If game's no good to any bugger." That seemed like a lifetime ago now; Morse thought the corruption had left with Crisp and Lott.

To pass the time, Morse had thrown himself into the Brown case. Through questioning Mike, Morse had established that his wife, Verity, was most likely having an affair. On the night of her death, Brown had given her an ultimatum – choose her bed, then lie in it. The lawyers had alleged that at this point, an enraged Brown had hit her in the heat of the moment, panicked then hidden the body. Morse, however, believed Browns testimony that he had watched his wife leave to go for a walk, and then gone out to his shed to do some work. He deduced that the fancy man was most likely the mechanic who had fixed her car, then kept calling her into the garage for small adjustments then check-ups. Morse wholly believed that Mrs Brown had gone to meet him to finish things, and that the man had lost his temper and committed the deed, planting the weapon at a later date. He promised Brown that when he got out, he would initiate a case review.

Brown had looked at Morse, long and hard.

"Thanks mate. But there's no one gets out of here. Never."

Three weeks into his prison stretch, Morse went into his cell one day to find another letter under his pillow. This one was different, a long thick letter in an envelope, with a slightly sweet fragrance. The paper had small blotches where the ink, was smudged and if Morse had been paying attention he would have recognised them as thick, heavy tears.

 _Darling Morse,_

 _I'm really sorry it had to be like this, but they won't let me in to see you. I tried to come, but they said I would be arrested. I can't believe any of this is real; the world has turned upside down. We all know it wasn't you, but no one will listen to us._

 _I'm so sorry to have to tell you, but my darling Fred passed away that night. We were all at his bedside, Sam, Joan and I. He fought so hard, but his heart just couldn't cope with the bullet wound. At least he didn't suffer too much, it was peaceful._

 _He led a long and happy life, and he died a hero, fighting for truth and justice right to his last minute. He died knowing that he still had loyalty from his men, and that means more than words can describe._

 _I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart. You were the only one there for Fred; you went to his aid when he needed you most. If I know my Fred, he would have offered you the chance to leave, so you must have chosen to stay. Thank you for staying with him, until the end._

 _We're going to fix this Morse, I promise. It doesn't end like this. Sam and Joan send you their love, and we hope to be able to see you some day, when all of this is over._

 _All my love and best wishes,_

 _Win xx_

After the second paragraph, Morse had gone numb. He couldn't believe what he was reading. His hand started shaking, and the letter fell out of his hand onto the bed. As his brain caught up with his eyes, Morse let out a strangled, grief stricken cry. As he fell to the floor, he felt the waves of pain he had been suppressing lap higher and higher, until they were crashing over his head. All life, purpose and meaning was lost. The hope he had been holding onto was crushed under the weight of the letter.

Thursday was dead.


	3. Impossible?

Slowly, painfully, time began to come back to Morse, to hold meaning.

Brown had found Morse lying on the floor of the cell, and had picked him up, gently tucked him into his bed. Reading the letter, he had felt his stomach sink – from the way Morse spoke, Brown knew that he deeply respected Thursday, regarding him in some respects as a father figure. He knew that Morse's resilience had stemmed from the hope that Thursday would fix everything, make it all ok. Looking at his cellmate now, Morse was lying lifeless, colourless, conscious but not responsive.

In the first few days after Wins letter, a catatonic Morse had been admitted to the prison hospital. Day after day he just lay there, prostrate as the doctor gave up on trying to feed him, instead hooking him up to a drip. Brown had visited him every day, just sitting in silence amid the mutual despair. Morse had always pictured a world with Thursday there, the eternal survivor. Now there was a lifetime ahead of a dead Thursday, enduring guilt, and anguish.

Now, however, Morse had started coming out of it. He put on enough weight to be allowed back to his cell, and began plotting. Brown was rather alarmed by the change in Morse – the quiet confidence from the first few weeks had been replaced by a reckless, steely rebellion which was much more likely to cause trouble. More than once, Brown's warden had been forced to step in to prevent violence from other prisoners. However, this had resulted in Morse losing his social time, and he was now kept constantly locked in his cell for everyone's safety.

Then one day, the door banged open again, the first grim faced warden standing there.

"Morse. Out."

Morse just stared up, confused.

"Haven't got all day. Move it"

He got slowly and clumsily to his feet, wishing that Brown. Somehow, Morse sensed he wouldn't be returning to this cell and he wanted to say goodbye. He decided he must be getting moved, to a new cell, solitary confinement, or even a new prison entirely. He shuffled towards the door, lost in a haze of thoughts. He was frog marched down the corridor, past the threatening stares of those he had crossed, through the heavy iron bars and into the offices. He wondered if he was being taken to appear in court, and he wished he had been given more time to prepare, to see a solicitor. No doubt someone had pulled strings to prevent that too, to be able to seal the final nail in Morse's coffin. In court without a brief, he would be a laughing stock. Well if he was going to go down, he decided he would be as well going down fighting.

Morse was so absorbed in his musings that he didn't really take in what was happening around him. Leaving the confines of the prison, however briefly, meant the memories leaving the confines of the locked drawer. Facing up to the twisted, distorted 'facts.' Facing his new life as a murderer, beyond hope, beyond help.

Facing a life without Fred Thursday.

If he had been focused on the here and now, he would have realised that prisoners being taken to court appeared in their prison uniform, not in the familiar suit and coat that Morse was told to change back into. Prisoners being taken to court weren't marched down a path surrounded by fence and barbed wire. Prisoners being taken to court weren't deposited outside the front gates, with a release paper stuffed in their hands.

Morse slowly came out of his reverie, looking around him in astonishment. The first thing he noticed was a black car, with Peter Jakes leaning on it, smoking the ever present cigarette. Morse ambled slowly over, and Jakes wordlessly held the passenger side door open. Jakes got in the driver's side, burst the ignition into life, and tore away, leaving the prison in dust.

There was silence. Every time Morse opened his mouth, he couldn't formulate the words to ask, so he closed it again. After a few more moments, however, he looked over at Jakes, and went for one word.

"How?"

"Long story. Explain it back at yours."

Morse glanced over at Jakes again, who certainly looked much better than he had the last time Morse had seen him. He held himself with the all to familiar air of sneering arrogance and indifference, the façade he had always used when trying to pretend he knew more than Morse, to assert his superiority.

Morse felt his fist balling up inside his pocket again in revulsion. Did Jakes not care at all that Thursday was gone? Did he not care about a wife and two grown up children who had been left without a husband and a father? Had Morse seriously overestimated Jakes, placing trust and hope in him that he didn't deserve? The only thing keeping Morse from landing his fist in Jakes' face was the assumption that he had taken at least a small part in Morse's release.

In a surprisingly short time, they pulled up outside Morse's flat. As Morse entered the building, Jakes lingered behind, and motioned for Morse to go ahead of him whilst he had another cigarette. Mutinous, Morse climbed the stairs, seriously considering locking up, and refusing to let Jakes in. However, underneath disgust, Morse felt nothing but pity. Since learning of Jakes' past, he had come to realise why Jakes wore his pride like a suit of armour, that the swagger was born from guilt, and unspeakable horrors.

He let himself into the dark flat, reaching along the wall to press the light switch. As he turned to the room, he realised there was a dark figure standing in the corner. The person turned, stepping out of the shadows, hands extended towards Morse.

It was Fred Thursday.

Morse's ears began to ring, his vision blurred and his legs fell out from underneath him. He felt himself being caught in a pair of arms, and then there was darkness.


	4. Revelations

Awareness returned to Morse, slowly climbing out of the darkness. He could sense that he was lying down, and could feel a cold compress on his forehead. He groaned and opened his eyes, his head still swimming slightly. Thursday was leaning over him, his face full of care and concern. Morse tried to sit up, but Thursday kept a firm hand on his shoulder, pushing him back onto the pillows.

"Easy lad, take it slowly, you've had a huge shock."

Morse put out a hand and grasped Thursdays wrist, to make sure he was really there, and not an illusion. Thursday lifted Morse forward, propping him up on some pillows, taking the compress away from his forehead. Jakes appeared over Thursdays shoulder with a glass of water, which he handed to Morse.

Jakes was now displaying the unusual care and sympathy that Morse had only seen twice before – the first time when he had heard the smashing in the pub, and the second the morning after he had been beaten up in London. Now Morse understood why Jakes had been acting like he knew something Morse didn't in the car, and he felt bad for his anger. Realistically, this situation was far too complex to have broached in the car, and Morse wouldn't have believed Jakes, even if he had told him.

"I owe you infinite apologies Morse. I knew it would cause pain to so many people, but it was the only way of keeping everyone safe. Win had no idea, when she sent you that letter she thought it was the truth," Thursday sounded sombre.

"But…I…How?" Morse still couldn't quite believe it; a part of him still thought he was going to wake up any second back in his cell.

"I'm not quite sure you're up to it mate. No offence, but you look like death warmed up, and that was before the gov's melodramatic reappearance," Jakes piped up, half teasing and half serious.

"No, no I'm fine. Please I have to know, now."

There was silence whilst Thursday stared into Morse's eyes. Whatever he was looking for, he must have found it because he silently nodded his assent. Morse swung himself off the bed, grabbed a bottle of scotch and some glasses, and motioned for the two other men to join him around his cards table.

Thursday downed his glass before diving right in. That was one of the many things Morse respected about Thursday – no preamble, no procrastination, straight to the point.

"When I got the phone call, I realised it was a fix up, but all I cared about was the kiddie. After Deare's arrival, I heard what he said to you, and I knew that we were in more danger than we could have imagined. I knew the only way to break the case was to disappear for a while, let everyone involved think I was gone. I couldn't stop them arresting you Morse, I'm so sorry for that. It would have led to both of us being killed for sure."

"But…you… I saw you get shot. Right in front of me."

"That's because I did get shot; only Deare hadn't done his homework properly. When I was in Africa, they gave us some special kit - vests lined with metal plates. Crude, but just enough to stop a bullet. I had a feeling, so I just managed to squeeze myself into it. The metal took the force of the impact, spreading it out over a wider area. Instead of multiple organ damage and extensive bleeding, I got off with a few broken ribs and bruised kidneys. The impact knocked me for six, but I was still with it enough to hear what was going on. If I'd got up to help you, Deare would have smelled a rat and shot us both in the head instead. Murder-suicide. When I got to the hospital, they patched up my ribs, and then fudged the heart machine to make it stop. They wheeled me off and told Win that the post mortem would have to take a few weeks," Thursday sighed heavily, and the cost of the deception was plain to see on his face.

Morse sat digesting this, stunned. Looking back, he had been surprised by the lack of blood, but he had been trying not to look too hard. Passing out wouldn't have helped either of them. They sat, sipping more of the Scotch before Thursday continued.

"I went underground then. Got Jakes to help me from the inside. First, we tried to prove that you weren't there when Standish was killed. We knew that Bright hadn't seen you at the party, and Joan, Sam and Win would swear blind you didn't have the scarf when you left my house. That alone wouldn't stick, though so we had to dig deeper. We were struggling; we had absolutely nothing to go on. I knew I had to act quiclly, so that night, I revisited your rendezvous point, and the answer was practically thrown into my lap."

"How?" Morse enquired

Jakes snorted a laugh. "Chard – bloody idiot. In all the excitement, guess he forgot to check his pockets. Finding his warrant card there well and truly put him at the scene."

"Now, we needed to put you there too. We filched the car sign in sheet, to prove you had taken the Jag. We then found a bullet lodged in the back seat, which ballistics managed to trace back to Chards gun. DeBryn turned up trumps, and managed to find fibres from your scarf under Deare's finger nails and on his jacket."

"Then, after a thorough talking to, Strange testified that Deare had told him not to respond to Blenheim Vale."

At this, Jakes' knuckles turned white, as his grasp on the glass tightened, but he made no other sign of recognition. He knew what Morse wanted to know next, so he excused himself on the pretense of having another cigarette and quietly left the room.

Thursday made sure he was gone, then turned back to Morse. "Jakes told me everything, all about Blenheim vale. Damn bad business Morse. He told me all about Deare and Wintergreen, how they made him shop big Peter. Well the day after you were arrested, the friends went out digging again and found the poor sod. So we also have the testimony that he was last seen leaving with Deare and Wintergreen. At Fairbridge's we found something of a diary and some ... some other things too."

"And Jakes?" Morse was still haunted by seeing Jakes break down in front of him.

"He'll be OK. We had a good chat, I think he feels better about it now Deare is dead. I had no idea, that day they met at the station. If I had even an inkling I would have landed a fist in the sneering bastards face. When the formalities are sorted, I think they're planning on a funeral for the boy, so I'm going to see if he'll go, I think the closure would do him good. He feels guilty for not going out to help that night, but given the circumstances I can hardly blame him and he's done more than enough to make up for it since," Thursday emphasised the last sentence.

"Oh no Sir, I dont blame him. Not at all," Morse was sincere. He had been thinking for a while, and he really didn't blame Jakes for anything that night. If he had come, he probably would have got shot too.

"Thanks lad," Thursday smiled at Morse.

"But still, it's all circumstantial. Evidence missing, the walls having ears, case would have fallen apart," Morse interjected.

Thursday didn't respond, but simply smiled. He pulled something from his pocket, and pressed a button. As a crackling noise started, Morse got a better look and saw the device to be a cassette machine. Then, there was the disembodied voice that Morse recognised all too well, and hoped that he would never have to hear again:

 _Actually I think they'll pin another medal on my chest._

 _History's written by the victor._

 _Bad apples? That's you two, I'm afraid._

 _In my version of events, at least._

 _And since that's all they'll have, it's rather all that counts._

 _You see, when Chard told me you'd got away, I had to improvise. So eager to jump through my hoops, you left your scarf in my car. It was found next to Standish's strangled body._

 _Right now, every copper in the county is out looking for you._

 _Pity you won't be around to appreciate my solution._

 _There, I'm afraid endeth the lesson._

There was a click as the recording finished, and Morse looked up at Thursday, astounded.


	5. Home

There was silence while Morse digested all he had heard. It all seemed so simple now, so easy. All that time in prison, thinking there was no hope, no future.

"Deare obviously hadn't planned on dying that night. Without him, his rotten core of corruption started falling apart, making mistakes. They tried to plant the missing evidence at my place, only my Win wasn't taking any fools. The swag was found in the glove box of a car parked outside our house – they found the keys in Wins pocket and insisted on searching it. Only problem was, the car had been left by a friend of hers after I was shot, in case she needed to get to the hospital quick," Thursday explained with a wry smile.

Morse snorted and shook his head, amazed at the simple stupidity.

"I'd been working on Chard for over a year, he thought I was in his pocket," Jakes re-entered the room. "He laughed about it, spilled all. Right as I was testing out my new cassette recorder," Jakes' smugness was well placed this time. "We pulled him for conspiracy and attempted murder, and it only took an hour of questioning before he cracked and spilled all. He knew we had him, so decided that if he was going down, everyone else was going with him."

"There'll still be a few malingerers, but we'll weed them out along the way no doubt. Frazil managed to call in favours, got her hands on some council documents. The cancelation of the dig, the sale of Blenheim vale, it all traced back to Wintergreen. Only thing is, with the upcoming merger, the Chief Constable wants to keep a lid on things. Pulled strings to get an embargo on the press – the official line is that Standish had a heart attack, and that Deare was the victim of a crazed psychopath. About the best we could get away with in the circumstances.

Morse sighed heavily, and Thursday raised his eyebrow at him. "I know it's not ideal lad, but you win some and you lose some. I'd say we did not bad out of this one – we managed to get you out. The Thames Chief heard there was a hit order out on you, so made it an arrestable offence to try and get into the prison to visit you. When it comes to locked up coppers, the wardens aren't too scrupulous about upholding security."

"Sorry Sir, I am honestly grateful. It's just frustrating that Deare could walk free like that," Morse mumbled.

"He hardly walked free Morse. Got his just desserts by any standard."

"Yeah but now all the blame is on that Angela."

"The buck rarely stops with the right person Morse, you'll learn that with experience. The people who matter know the truth, so we'll just have to settle for that, wont we?"

"Yes Sir."

"Right you, go get your suitcase packed," said Thursday briskly, standing up and picking up the glasses.

Morse just looked up at him, bewildered.

"Oh sorry did I not tell you? My Win insisted on me bringing you home with me so we can get you fed up and back on top form again. Jakes, you're welcome to join us for some dinner if you like?"

"Thanks Sir, but I've got other plans.

"No bother, we'll drop you off on the way then." 

* * *

_A fist knocks on a door. Through the frosted glass a figure can be seen, getting larger and larger. The door opens revealing Chard, who looks at the person on his doorstep with instant recognition. He freezes, his face turning several skin tones lighter and a freezing in a picture of shock._

 _"What's wrong Hugh? You seen a ghost?" Thursday growls._

 _Jakes steps forward and handcuffs Chard with a uniform. "Chard we are arresting you on suspicion of corruption, attempted murder and conspiracy to murder. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention anything which you may later rely on in court. Anything you do say will be taken and given in evidence."_

 _Chard sneers, and leans in towards Thursday. "Come at me mate, see what happens."_

 _At this, he is frogmarched off to a waiting car, and taken to the station._

 _After three hours of interview, Chard is still as tight lipped as he was when he arrived. The interview is being taken by Jakes and Thursday, with Bright sitting in the corner._

 _"Come on Hugh, we've got your warrant card at the scene of the shooting and your bullets in the back seat of the car Morse was using," Thursday states confidently._

 _"That's nothing though, can't prove I was there. Warrant card could have been stolen, and I'm not the only one with that brand of gun," Chard sneers._

 _"True, very true. What we would need is something more definitive, perhaps a signed confession?"_

 _"Fat chance," Chard snorts._

 _"Jakes, would you?"_

 _Jakes leans down, taking an item out of a bag and placing it on the table. It's a cassette player._

 _"What's this? Gonna play us some of your precious protégée's opera whilst we wait?"_

 _"No not quite. Jakes?"_

 _Jakes presses the play button, having to fight to keep the smile of his face. Chard freezes with all the air of a man cornered, as his own voice fills the room out of the player._

"That jumped up little so and so's had it coming to him mate. Lucky I'm not the only one that thought so, Deare was finished with his pathetic little public schoolboy act. Well he's in for a shock in prison, they don't like coppers in there. Stroke of genius, getting Standish with Morse's scarf. Fit up good and proper. Glad that Thursday copped it, now the truth will die with him."

 _There is the quieter sounds of Jakes laughing and agreeing, playing along with the act, then a click as the tape stops._

 _"Sorry to disappoint you Hugh. I was always one step ahead of you and Deare's little game. And seeing as you mentioned Morse, you cross him you cross me, so if I was you I'd start talking, and sharpish," Thursday leans threateningly towards Chard, his eyes shooting flames and his body projecting rage._

 _Chard looks at him, stupefied and swallows thickly. He lights up a cigarette, then takes Thursday's advice and starts talking. He tells them all about the officers he knew to be involved and the orders Deare had given him. He tells them about the payoffs he had seen, and the council officials that were in with it. He seems determined to take everyone else down with him, so paints Thursday a detailed picture of the web of deceit. He describes all of the events that had happened that night, from shooting Morse to knowing of Deare's plan to murder Standish. He even signs the confession._

 _Thursday stands up, with a look of deepest disgust, with Chard cowering under him. Wordlessly, he sweeps out of the room. The task he has to perform now is so many times more difficult than uncovering a web of corruption._

* * *

 _He drives the familiar route, trying to plan out a script in his head. Each scenario becomes stuck, and before he can plan one through to the end his car rolls to a halt at his destination. His heart pounding inside his chest, he gets out the car and walks along the familiar path. He knocks on the door, then lets himself in. He hangs his coat and hat on the hallstand, then walks through to stand in his dining room._

 _"Hello? Joanie, is that you?," Win calls, coming down the stairs._

 _She walks into the dining room and stops dead. With a muffled scream, she drops the washing basket she was carrying and throws herself into Fred's arms. He gently guides her through to the living room, sits her on the sofa and wraps her in his arms._

 _"I'm so sorry Win, it was the only way to keep you, the kids and everyone else safe. I had no other choice, I hope you can forgive me."_

 _Win doesn't speak, but bursts into tears. Fred gently rocks her in his arms, rubbing circular motions on her back. He missed her more than he could say, even for those short weeks. Waking up every day knowing that Win was suffering killed him, but it was too dangerous to reappear. Such a wonderful feeling having his wife back in his arms after a night when he never thought he would see her again, then living each day wondering if he would feel a bullet in his back, where every noise was a potential enemy coming to complete the kill. Win starts to calm down, and pulls herself out of his shoulder._

 _"I understand that you had to do it Fred, heavens knows there's a lot of dangerous people out there. Thank you for keeping us safe love, I'm sure the kids are smart enough to understand," Win sniffles._

 _"Speaking of which, where are they?" Fred enquires._

 _"Went out to work, wanted to start getting back on with things as soon as possible. Don't give them enough credit sometimes."_

 _"Absolutely not. I really do regret this love, I wanted to come back every day. It killed me knowing that it was my fault you were all suffering."_

 _"Don't be silly dear, not your fault at all. Typical you, always having everyone else's best interests at heart. Speaking of which, what about poor Morse? I… I sent him a letter. Oh no, what have I done?" Win wails, covering her eyes with her hands._

 _Thursday takes hold of her wrists, and pulls them down so he can look into her eyes. "Listen to me Win, you did the right thing. It was essential that everyone thought I was gone. The slightest doubt on anyone's part could have led to us being blown wide open and lives being in danger. Morse is another smart cookie – it'll be a shock at first, but he'll understand."_

 _"He… he will get off won't he?" Win asks uncertainly._

 _"His release papers are being arranged as we speak. Jakes is going to drive over and pick him up, take him back to his flat."_

 _"Then you'd best get over there, hadn't you? Put the poor boy out of his misery."_

 _"I'll just wait for the kids to get home first then I'll go love."_

 _"Oh Fred, promise me you'll bring him back here for a few days? He's going to need some looking after for a while, given all that he's been through."_

 _"Of course I will. Ready?" Fred can hear Joan and Sam coming through the front door, speaking in hushed tones._

 _As they enter the room, Fred stands up to greet them. Like her mother, Joan throws herself into his arms. Sam comes and stands behind her, so Fred pulls him and Win into a group hug. His family, all back together again at last. These are the moments and the memories that the darkness can never take from him, the love worth defending. After a few moments they break apart, and they sit down on the sofa._

 _"I'm guessing it's something dangerous, and the only way to keep us all safe was a ridiculously noble self-sacrifice or something?" Joan asks perceptively._

 _"Something like that," Fred smiles._

 _"So what happened then? Was it something to do with that ACC that got shot?"_

 _"Joan, how many times? Where do we leave work?" Win admonishes._

 _"Really? Does that rule SERIOUSLY still apply here mum?" Joan levels her best stare at her mother, while Sam chuckles._

 _"Well maybe later dear, but right now your father has a bagman to go and collect."_

 _Fred goes into the hall and puts on his shoes and jacket._

 _Win hands Fred his hat as he opens the front door. "Come back safe Fred."_

 _Fred smiles. "Don't Worry love, I'll be home for supper."_


	6. Epilogue

_Sometime later_

The morning is cold, but without the bitter chill of recent months. The birds are singing in the trees, and there is a definite hint of spring in the air. A small group of people emerge from the church carrying a small white coffin between them and the vicar leads them over the uneven ground down towards a freshly dug grave. As they walk, a car pulls up and three people get out. A long and lanky driver with dark slicked back hair, a middle aged passenger wearing a long coat and trilby, and a younger man with reddish fair hair, holding himself with an air of awkwardness.

The driver takes a step forward then hesitates, looking around, haunted. The older man places a hand on his shoulder and at this touch the man seems to gather courage. He strides down the path towards the group gathered around a grave, with the two others following at a distance.

The driver joins the group and one of the men turns, shakes his hand and pulls him into an embrace. The two other men clap him on the shoulder and the girl leans in to kiss his cheek. Together they all lower the coffin into the grave, then pick up spades and refill the soil. The tallest man with curly hair bends forward, placing an engraved stone at the head of the grave. The words on the stone are simple;

 _"Forever, in Never Neverland"_

The group stand in silence for a moment, then shake hands and depart their separate ways. The tall man walks back towards the car, with the two others rising off the bench and joining him back in the Jaguar.

As the car roars to life down the road, Morse leans forward slightly. "Sir, there was something I was wondering if you could please help me with."

"Oh yes?" Thursday turns in the front seat.

"I was wondering if we could please open a murder case review?"

 _The End_

* * *

Thank you all for reading, I really enjoyed writing this piece. I will be writing some more on this story, but I decided it would be better to post them as stand alone sequels so as to not detract from the main story line here.


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